The Dessert

Beneath a porcelain moon that melts like lard,

The kitchen floats on tides of violet glass.

I stir the bruised geometry of stars,

And watch the liquid midnight slowly pass.

Sugar is falling like a frozen prayer

Across the weeping trenches of the fruit.

An indigo horizon thickens there,

Where ancient orchards drown without a root.

The crust—a landscape torn from sunken shores—

Crumbles to ash of butter and of bone.

The oven breathes behind its iron doors,

A heavy sigh of some forgotten stone.

Is this the memory of a summer day,

Or just the dark dissolving in the heat?

I watch the purple planets burn away,

And taste the bitter dark, and call it sweet.